


After All This Time

by PrettyPoppy



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Drama, F/M, Reunions, Season/Series 08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2020-01-14 21:35:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18484831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyPoppy/pseuds/PrettyPoppy
Summary: After years apart, Tyrion and Sansa are finally reunited on the covered bridge at Winterfell.  An examination of Tyrion and Sansa’s thoughts during their conversation in “Winterfell,” Season 8, Episode 1.





	1. Tyrion

**Author's Note:**

> After waiting years to see Tyrion and Sansa finally reunited, I was honestly disappointed with their onscreen reunion in “Winterfell.” I wanted more. This fic explores that reunion scene word for word, beat for beat, first from Tyrion’s point of view and then from Sansa’s, giving insight into their feelings and motivations, and helping me salvage just a little bit of my sanity.
> 
> It is written in the present tense, which is something I have never done before in a third person narrative. I thought it would create a sense of immediacy that was essential for this story.

Tyrion sees Sansa across the yard, on the other side of the covered bridge, Lord Royce by her side.  She doesn’t see him across the distance, doesn’t feel his eyes upon her, and he is glad.  For a moment, he just stands there, watches, and observes, and wonders if he should approach. 

She is more beautiful than he remembers, though not nearly as warm.  Although she is still young, the bloom of youth has turned dark in her eyes, and for the life of him, he can’t imagine her ever laughing.  All at once, he longs for the summer days back in King’s Landing when they’d walked together in the gardens, laughing and confiding in one another as she’d waited with unfailing hope for her brother Robb to rescue her.  She had been beautiful then too, but it had been a different kind of beauty, light and vivacious and joyful.  But now, there seems to be no joy in her, and Tyrion grieves for all she has lost.

It has been a long time since those days in the garden, four or five years, almost too many years to keep count.  It seems like a lifetime ago, and Tyrion is tempted to just let the past lie buried, but he knows they will have to speak eventually, and there is no better time than the present. 

So, despite the tension gripping his chest, Tyrion pulls away from the window and moves slowly around the covered bridge, approaching with cautious steps.  When he is close enough for them to hear him, he addresses first, Lord Royce, and then, Lady Sansa.  “My lord, my lady,” Tyrion says, his voice softening on the last word.

Sansa finally looks at him, a momentary distress in her eyes, almost as if she is just as reluctant for this encounter as he is.  But the look is gone nearly as quickly as it appears, and she turns to Lord Royce, telling him with a silent nod that it’s all right to leave them alone.

Lord Royce glances in Tyrion’s direction, distrust in his eyes.  “My lady,” he says, continuing to glare at Tyrion for a moment before finally walking away.

Sansa turns back toward the yard, sighing in something close to exasperation, her breath crystallizing in the cold, northern air.

This is not how Tyrion imagined their reunion, or at least, not how he would have imagined it if he’d spent any great length of time trying to picture it in his mind.  For the longest time, he’d thought never to see her again.  But now, here they stand, on the covered bridge at Winterfell, the whole world falling apart around them and a lifetime of hurt and misunderstanding between them.

Tyrion moves toward her, only stopping when he is comfortably close, but not too close, never too close.  Although they were once man and wife, they are little more than strangers now, and he knows she is wary of the queen he is sworn to serve and the army that is marching northward on his behalf.  He doesn’t want to push her, to corner her, to make her feel uncomfortable.  He just wants to talk.

“The Lady of Winterfell,” Tyrion says, the words reverent but almost disbelieving at the same time.  “Has a nice ring to it.”

Sansa looks down at him.  “So does Hand of the Queen.  Depending on the queen, I suppose.” 

Her last words are bitter, and Tyrion isn’t surprised.  His cheek twitches as he fights back a smile.  Of course, the Lady of Winterfell is not fond of her new queen.  Despite outward appearances, Sansa Stark has always been a she-wolf at heart, fiercely territorial and protective of her family.  She sees Daenerys as an invader, a usurper, the woman who has stolen her brother’s crown.  Of course, she is wary.  She would be a fool to feel otherwise.

Tyrion knows now is not the time to convince Sansa of Daenerys’ worth.  There will be time for that later when the White Walkers reach Winterfell and it’s Daenerys’ dragons that save them all.  Instead, he broaches the subject weighing on his mind, the reason he has come to speak to her in the first place.  They must talk about the past if they are ever to move forward as allies.  “Last time we spoke was at Joffrey’s wedding,” Tyrion says.  “Miserable affair.”

“It had its moments,” Sansa replies, and when he glances up to look at her, there is a hint of amusement on her face.

Even though Joffrey and Margaery’s wedding had been a nightmare for Tyrion, it had been an escape for Sansa.  An escape, not only from King’s Landing and the Red Keep, but also from Joffrey himself.  The man who had executed her father had died brutally that day, and it doesn’t surprise Tyrion that she takes some pleasure in that fact.

Tyrion looks out over the yard again, and he feels Sansa’s eyes on him for a moment. 

She says, “Apologies for leaving like that,” and as she speaks, she turns and begins to walk away, but only far enough to put some distance between them.  She is not abandoning him.  Not this time.

There is a note of insincerity in her voice, as if duty and honor dictate that she must apologize even though she is not sorry in the least.  Tyrion catches it, and it sets the tone for his own reply.

“Yes,” he says as he turns to look up at her.  “It was a bit hard to explain why my wife fled moments after the king’s murder.”  The words sound harsher than they should, almost accusatory.  He knows he has no reason to blame her.  She had been but a child at the time, a child being manipulated by Littlefinger.  She’d hated King’s Landing and hadn’t trusted anyone around her, least of all her Lannister husband.  No, Tyrion knows he can’t blame her for running, even if his pride is wounded by her insincerity.

Sansa looks down at him for a moment as if planning her reply.  There’s a smugness in her eyes as she says, quite matter-of-factly, “We both survived.”

He nods, knowing that she is right, knowing that, in the end, nothing else really matters. 

It takes a moment for him to accept that fact, and then, another idea comes into his mind.  He stares up at her thoughtfully, and with a hint of appreciation in his voice says, “Many underestimated you.  Most of them are dead now.”

Sansa seems to accept Tyrion’s pronouncement with something akin to pride, Stark pride, as if she has known all along that she was a survivor and everyone else was a fool for ever having doubted her.  She acknowledges his words with what he thinks is an approving nod, but he can’t be sure.  The gesture is so small, so fleeting, that he’s certain he imagined it.

Sansa breaks his gaze and walks toward the window, and Tyrion is thankful for the momentary reprieve.  It is hard to look into her eyes after all this time, hard to face the woman she has become, hardened, mistrustful, aloof. 

He breathes a quick sigh of relief before turning to address her again.  “I’m sure you weren’t thrilled to hear the Lannister army’s marching north,” he says as she stares out at the yard, listening to his every word.  “No one fears her more than I do, but I promise, you’ll be safe—”

“Cersei told you her army was coming north,” Sansa says, talking over him as she finally turns to look at him again, “to fight for you?”  There is incredulity in her voice, as if she thinks him the most foolish man in the world.

All Tyrion can say is, “She did.”

“And you believed her?”

He lowers his eyes, staring off blindly across the yard, unable to meet Sansa’s gaze.  “She has something to live for now.  I believe she wants to survive.”

Sansa turns her whole body toward him then, and Tyrion raises his eyes to look at her. 

With a slight shake of her head, she says, “I used to think you were the cleverest man alive.”  The words are soft, low, and Tyrion can tell that Sansa is amazed by her own foolishness.

Her words wound him deeply, more than he might have imagined.  He’d never thought to hear Sansa say that she thought him the cleverest man alive.  But apparently, she had.  And he would have taken pride in that fact if she hadn’t taken back the compliment with the same breath she’d used to give it.  She’d thought him clever once, but no more.  Now, she thinks him a fool for believing in Cersei, and perhaps she is right.

Sansa walks away, and there is nothing more to say.  Tyrion watches her go, her words burrowing themselves into his heart and his mind.  He doesn’t want to think about the danger he has put Sansa and her people in if his trust in Cersei is misplaced.  And he doesn’t want to think about the fact that Sansa’s opinion of him has waned considerably since last they’d met.  Her opinion of him had never been very high to begin with, and now, he doesn’t know if she will ever think well of him again.

Tyrion turns back toward the yard, trying not to think but failing miserably.  His heart stops beating for an unexpected moment and the air stills in his lungs as his eyes connect with Bran’s.  It is clear from the boy’s expression that he has watched the entire exchange, and Tyrion isn’t sure what the young Lord Stark is thinking.  Tyrion has heard whispers about Brandon Stark, about visions and warging and the Three-eyed Raven, but he doesn’t know quite what any of it means.  All he knows is that Bran Stark is looking back at him as if he knows something that Tyrion doesn’t, something of grave importance.

Tyrion fears it is about Cersei, or worse, about Sansa.  Although he is loyal to his family, if given a choice between Cersei and Sansa, he will always fight for the Stark girl.  He owes her that much, even if she did abandon him in King’s Landing, because she was once his wife, and he did very little for her while she was under his protection.  He hopes that Bran’s knowing stare is not a portent of tragedies to come. Especially not for Sansa.  She deserves better than that.  If anyone deserves to survive the war, it’s Sansa.

Tyrion shivers.  He cannot hold Bran’s gaze for long.  He turns away, finally able to breathe again.  With slow steps, his limbs trembling, he leaves the bridge, questioning his own wisdom and thinking about Sansa Stark.


	2. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short fic, just two chapters. As promised, here is the same scene from Sansa’s point of view. And Sansa, of course, sees things a bit differently from Tyrion.

Sansa stands on the covered bridge overlooking the yard, Yohn Royce by her side, only half listening to his words as he discusses preparations for the coming battle.  She watches the yard below, watches as the dragonglass is loaded into carts headed for the foundry.  She wonders if there is going to be enough.  Enough dragonglass, enough food, enough time.

Sansa feels as if she is the only one who wonders about such things.  Jon is clearly besotted with the Dragon Queen.  He has relinquished his crown for her, and now, it is Daenerys Targaryen who has dominion over Winterfell.  It is Daenerys Targaryen whose dragons fly above the keep, screeching and squawking and threatening with every dive and every swoop.  No one seems concerned about how they will be fed or where the food will come from.  And Daenerys Targaryen has brought more than just two dragons.  She has brought a Dothraki horde and thousands of Unsullied, and it is Sansa’s responsibility to figure out how to provide for them all.  Her own people may starve, but she is the only one who seems to care.

In truth, Sansa feels as if she is being invaded from all directions, the north, the south, across the Narrow Sea.  The White Walkers are barreling down from the Wall, Cersei Lannister is marching her army to Winterfell’s gates, and the Targaryen Queen sits in the Great Hall, holding court.  Yes, Sansa feels attacked on all sides, and she is beginning to question if she is the only reasonable person left in all the Seven Kingdoms.

Sansa doesn’t hear the footsteps approach.  She is too lost in her own thoughts, her own anger, her own disappointments, to notice much of anything. 

Then, she hears a voice, a familiar voice.  “My lord, my lady,” he says, and Sansa’s heart sinks as she turns to look at Tyrion Lannister. 

She doesn’t want to be alone with him, not now, not yet.  She doesn’t want to hear him explain to her why she should embrace his queen or why she should accept the fact that the Lannister army is marching toward Winterfell on his behalf.  She’s had enough disappointment for one day, and she is certain that she can’t stand any more.

But she is the lady of Winterfell, and she cannot avoid Tyrion forever.  Better to get the worst of it over with now than to prolong her agony.

Sansa glances at Lord Royce, dismissing him with a nod.  Reluctantly, he retreats.  She knows he would rather stay, but she is the Lady of Winterfell, and he must defer to her on the matter.

He walks away, and Tyrion finally approaches.  He is different than she remembers him, much different.  Time has changed him considerably.  He is older, yes, but it’s more than that.  There’s a serious cast to his eyes, a somberness to his entire manner, that is incongruous with the man she once knew.  They are both different, she realizes.  Both changed irrevocably.  And she fears, neither one for the better.

In her memories, Tyrion has always been a kind soul, but still an ugly, misshapen dwarf.  Looking at him now, it’s hard to remember why she ever thought of him that way.  He has matured into a reasonably good-looking man, and she thinks, perhaps, her memories were influenced more by fear than by anything else.  Or maybe it’s just that her idea of beauty has changed.  She has learned to look for beauty in unexpected places, and she begins to think that Tyrion is not without his charms. 

Sansa looks away, afraid that if she stares for too long, he will sense her thoughts.  She gazes out over the yard again and sighs, fearing she is not ready for it, but knowing this encounter must take place.

She feels Tyrion move closer.  She has waited years for this moment, but in her mind, it was always so different.  Over the years, she had begun to appreciate Tyrion’s wisdom and insight in the face of her own foolish stupidity.  But now, he is in league with Daenerys Targaryen and Cersei Lannister, and Sansa is beginning to question if he really is all that clever after all.

“The Lady of Winterfell,” he says, and she reluctantly turns her head to look down at him.  “Has a nice ring to it.”

“So does Hand of the Queen,” she answers, and she means it.  It is hard to believe how far they’ve both come.  They are no longer the disgraced daughter and the demon monkey.  They are both so much more now, though whether Tyrion deserves her admiration, she’s still not sure.  She turns away from him and can’t help but add, “Depending on the queen, I suppose.”

Were he anyone else, Sansa would have refrained from expressing her disdain for Daenerys Targaryen, but he is not just anyone else.  He is Tyrion Lannister.  He was once her husband and, even now, no stranger.  He knows her, and she knows him, and she feels no fear in making her displeasure known.  They have always been honest with each other, at least, she thinks they have, and she has no desire to start being false with him now.

Tyrion doesn’t comment on Sansa’s opinion of his queen, and she is glad.  She is in no mood to be coaxed into adoring the Targaryen woman the way Jon does.  Sansa is wary of the Dragon Queen, and rightfully so.  She will not let anyone, not even Tyrion Lannister, sway her on that count.

Instead of talking about Daenerys, Tyrion changes the subject.  “Last time we spoke was at Joffrey’s wedding,” he says.  “Miserable affair.”

Sansa can’t fight the smile that pulls at her lips, and she doesn’t even try.  She knows it was a miserable affair for Tyrion, but the day Joffrey died was one of the best days of her life, at least, it had felt that way at the time.  It had meant freedom from the Red Keep, from King’s Landing, from Joffrey and Cersei.  It had meant everything to Sansa then, and she refuses to pretend otherwise now.

She looks down at Tyrion, realizing that she has never said she was sorry for abandoning him that day.  He suffered a great deal after she left, and she is certain it still haunts him.

“Apologies for leaving like that,” she says as she turns away and puts some distance between them.  The words sound disingenuous, and Sansa is sorry because she does mean them.  She is just too frustrated for anything she says to sound kind or sincere.

Tyrion turns to face her and replies, “Yes.  It was a bit hard to explain why my wife fled moments after the king’s murder.”  His tone is harsh, nearly as harsh as hers, and there is accusation in his words.

Sansa doesn’t argue.  He has a right to feel angry, just as she has a right to feel disillusioned by everyone she’s ever believed in, including him.

She acknowledges his words with a slight nod and quickly thinks of something to say.  “We both survived,” she offers as some form of consolation.

He nods in return, then looks at her thoughtfully, and for a moment, she is anxious about what he might say.  He surprises her with something akin to praise.  “Many underestimated you.  Most of them are dead now.”

Sansa doesn’t know what to think or how she feels.  Does she feel justified?  A sense of pride?  She’s not sure.  But she knows she can’t stand there staring back at him much longer.  The conversation is starting to get too personal, and she’s beginning to feel uncomfortable.  Tyrion knows her far too well for her own good.  If he looks at her for too long, he’ll unlock all her secrets, find all her weaknesses, and that is the last thing she wants.

Sansa breaks his gaze and approaches the window again, staring out over the yard.  From the periphery of her vision, she sees Tyrion turn toward her.

“I’m sure you weren’t thrilled to hear the Lannister army’s marching north,” he says.  “You have every right to be fearful of my sister.  No one fears her more than I do, but I promise, you’ll be safe—”

Sansa can’t let him finish.  She has always believed Tyrion Lannister to be the cleverest man in all the Seven Kingdoms, and she doesn’t understand how he can speak such utter nonsense now.  “Cersei told you her army was coming north?” Sansa says, cutting him off.  She finally turns to look at him again, “To fight for you?”

“She did,” he replies as if he sees nothing wrong with the idea.

Sansa glances away for an instant, overwhelmed by Tyrion’s earnestness.  When she looks at him again, she doesn’t even attempt to hide her incredulity.  “And you believed her?”

His expression is serious as he replies, “She has something to live for now.  I believe she wants to survive.”

It is too much for Sansa to take.  Everyone she cares about, everyone she believes in, has turned out to be less than she imagined.  Jon is no longer a king.  He is nothing but a lovesick, green boy who has relinquished his crown for a pretty face and a pair of dragons.  And Tyrion Lannister, who she has always believed to be cunning and wise, is suddenly proving himself to be so much less than she expected.  She can see that his choices are based on emotion, just as Jon’s are, and she is more disappointed than she can admit.

She turns toward Tyrion, facing him with her whole body this time.  She has admired him for so long, and now, he is letting her down, just like everyone else. 

Sansa shakes her head.  Her voice soft, her disappointment apparent in every word, she says, “I used to think you were the cleverest man alive.” 

And she did.  Truly, she did.  But now, she just feels like a fool.

There is hurt in Tyrion’s eyes.  He doesn’t try to hide his emotions any more than she does.  And it is suddenly too much for Sansa to bear.  She doesn’t know what more to say to him, and she fears if she doesn’t leave soon, she’ll say something she’ll regret.

Sansa walks away without another word, leaving Tyrion standing behind her.  She wanted so much more from their reunion.  She wanted an ally, a friend, someone whose counsel and wisdom she can count on as they prepare to fight the darkness.  But everyone is disappointing her.  It isn’t just Tyrion.  She wishes that he had returned without his dragon queen, without Cersei’s army on his heels.  If he had, their reunion might have been different and her admiration for him might have remained intact.

Sansa heads toward the Great Keep.  There is much work to be done, and she doesn’t have time to waste thinking about Tyrion Lannister.  But she thinks about him all the same.  She fears that her faith in him is lost forever, and yet, she hopes that she is wrong.


End file.
